Glass Graves
by BoiledMermaid
Summary: So, you feel entitled to a sense of control, and you make decisions that you think that you own. Who are you, really?


_Hope it's okay. I'm not a massive Jin fan, but you kinda have to give him the time of day. What with him being, essentially, the protagonist to the whole Tekken series._

* * *

Nina sits poised and painterly in patent leather and pressed pearl teeth, hands folded delicately on her knees, an origami study of stark ivory and polish the colour of dripping sunsets and blackening blood, residual evidence of a vicious creature disguised in the faintest flutter of eyelashes, a liquid pink smile carved alien into a pretty face lacking the dimensions to support it. She's biting back an urge to crack knuckles, the snap snap of cartilage providing a metronome to a heartbeat growing increasingly rapid, mouth dry and expressions strained at the very possibility of allowing control slip away, uneasy and unsure, dwarfed and encompassed by the shadow of a boy destined to destroy.

Jin is a portrait study of war, a linear masterpiece of geometric coincidence, a study in harsh angles and sharp edges, a careful carving cutting away the softer remnants of a childhood easily lost in the dips and shallows of an expression beyond it's years. Smears of thistle-coloured shades decorate the skin beneath his eyes, his recent struggles with late-nights and insomnia worn like war paint across his features.

"When I was young," he's saying, his voice broken and crackling, an interrupted broadcast, a distorted sound of ghosts and shadows and years gone by, his voice calling to her from deep within the sepia-toned stills of his own memory. Dark eyes remain distant, a secondary focus keeping his gaze rooted to the splintered fragments cradled within his palm, a glittering powder dusting of fine glass and cracked lens, rose-tinted and familiar in a way that inspires a growing concern, manifesting itself in a verbal assault heavily influenced by an undertone of maternal devotion she feels eerily comfortable with.

Her growing sense of preoccupation with regards his dwindling sense of morality, his increasing desire to disassociate, isolate himself from humanity as a whole, frequently takes residence, if not dominating the majority of the conversation shared between them, slowly poisoning his faith in her neutrality as a confidant.

These rare snatches of humanity, a confession of his own mortality spoken as easily as recalling a fond childhood memory, are rarely afforded to her. Eyes of ice chips and storm clouds focus intensely on the minute curl of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, silently urging him to continue.

"My mother, she took me to a forest, she said it would be a new lesson, an appreciation for nature and it's power, a respect for life, no matter it's measurement in strength." His eyes trace the desktop, a silhouette of stacked papers, empty frames of gilded gold and sterling silver, a collection of muted tones, shadows and shades cultivated by the low evening light.

She does not miss a flicker of liquid amber, a sweeping glance towards a dusty mantle standing sentinel at the opposite end of the office, where once a frame-less, crinkled photograph of Jun Kazama took residence, her smile a welcome respite from the severity marring the youth of her son's face. A golden halo of light framing a deep chestnut sweep of hair, easy grins and soft, autumn-coloured eyes.

Jin's increasingly obsessive desire for a self-inflicted solidarity had plagued him frequently within the hazy blue hours of early morning confusion, his parasitic desire seeing him hunched, unfocused, soft yellow-orange glow of a lighter clutched between gnarled knuckles of blood bruises and broken skin, the photograph reflexively curling in on itself, protecting itself from the intense heat, from his brutal mistreatment, reacting between his palms like a victim to his persecution. His final attempts to sever any attachment he still harboured to his human condition.

"There was a black butterfly," he's explaining, voice devoid of emotion, carefully practiced neutrality smoothing the crease appearing above his brow, "This tiny, frail thing, but it followed me like a shadow."

The lingering flutter of charcoal wings traditionally heralding the death of a loved one, the irony is not lost on Nina, nor, apparently, Jin, his knuckles paling almost subconsciously, fingers twisting and curling, tense fists of frustration, incensed by the memory of ghost winds and butterfly wings, as though the creature itself had torn his mother from his life.

"I had wanted to kill it, had even tried to, but my mother, she caught my wrist, she had actually scolded me," he half scoffs, the phantoms of childhood grins softening the sharpened edges of a grim press of lips.

"She called it an '_abuse of power_'; abusing my human influence to hurt those I would deem weaker, establishing dominance when it was never in question."

He places clammy palms flat against the mahogany desktop, fingers splayed; veins of electric blue embossing spirals beneath the surface of his skin, eyes riveted by the secrets they spell out, the systematic flex and relax of thick ropes of tendon beneath the surface momentarily distracting them from the topic at hand.

Nina's understanding of Jin's nocturnal struggle with ghosts of heart and demons of body was maintained strictly on a need-to-know basis. He would casually wave away her questioning, a deceptive grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, the severity of his reluctance punctuated by a defiant, unquestionable gesture, his hand carving a cut through open air, an unspoken threat, a promise of violence should needless curiosity persist.

But she had heard whispers and screams, unearthly, ethereal voices in languages her research had yet to provide answers to. A dense shadow claimed residence in the corridors of the Mishima manse, phantom fingers and sharpened edges raking chilling patterns into the sensitive skin on the back of her neck, a supernatural presence lingering, haunting the labyrinth of rooms, developing a particular fondness for Jin's, a shredded silk snowfall of torn sheets strewn across furniture, his mattress a gaping wound of coiling spring and stuffing. Shards of fine glass glitter and sparkle like precious gems, haphazardly swept into corners, under rugs, although not enough to prevent Jin injuring himself on his own nuclear fallout, a poppy trail of vibrant red blossoming through marble flooring, marking his anxious pacing as it loops in circles around the devastated skeleton of a bed.

Days later she would glance through the gap in his door following a particularly harsh night of his verbal self-abuse, echoes of his own madness eagerly repeating evidence of his own downfall. The room itself shrouded in darkness, assassin eyes easily establish the hulking figure perched amidst a cocoon of shredded drapery and glistening chains, a smell of burning bodies, of pollution and destruction accompanying it's appearance, but her observation is quickly halted as the heavy head struggles to lift, sensing her presence, snarling it's curses into darkness, ornately carved horns catching beams of moonlight through torn curtains as the creature turns towards her, sparking golden eyes glowing celestial, electricity and the sharp bite of citrus, wasp stings and biohazards, molten lava trails bleeding from it's eyes, streaking agony across it's features as charred skin flakes away from bone.

And she wordlessly steps away, plagued by questions, ruled by self-restraint.

The following morning, Jin greets her with the routinely mundane nod of his head, a practiced lack of expression, a natural talent for intense silence, but his eyes, blackening pools of liquid obsidian, linger, assessing, evaluating, a dawning look of understanding, a chilling realisation that his weakness has been exposed, his personal demons breaking through the delicate bird bone cage of his ribs, elongated shards of blackened fingers tearing their way from the inside out, scratching and clawing, ribbons of skin trailing in their wake.

His eyes almost pose her a challenge.

The same challenge he seems to contemplate now, her eyes drawn to his splayed hands as the bones break and shift, mould and melt into rigid claws, muscle and cartilage exposed, skin a maroon and lavender masterpiece patchwork of infection and inflammation around the nail bed, thickened, yellowing talons carve delicate lines into the desktop. The shift is so subtle, so graceful, she struggles to decipher whether her mind is rattling in the wake of discovering the boy's silent war with the literal demons plaguing his lineage.

"Do you think that rule still applies?" he's saying, arranging and rearranging, in compulsive loops, the shards of reddened glass he had been so fascinated by, "Do you think that turning this monster loose on a race as corrupt and irreparable as humanity would still be considered a play for dominance, an '_abuse of power_'," his eyes once again trailing towards the mantle, as though the shade of his mother would appear if only he would speak her words, but they are quick to relocate to the carefully composed placid mask Nina has perfected over the years, not even a glimpse of that acid yellow glittering curiously behind his eyes is enough to unsettle her.

"Or would it be a mercy killing?"

Nina swallows thickly, her maternal concern for the dwindling sanity of her employer manifesting as a sour pill lodged firmly in her throat. Eyes like winter skies and Irish evenings regard him coolly beneath a delicate curl of black lash, desperately stalling to formulate a coherent answer, determined in remaining a voice of neutrality to provide balance for the vicious good versus evil war waged in his head, the evidence of which plays out across the plains of his face.

"Sir?" she encourages further explanation, her voice a level tone of feigned disinterest.

"What do I do when it's self-defence? Where does morality stand when my position of dominance is brought into question?"

She remains silent, the question seeming more rhetoric, as though her presence had entirely faded from the room, another ghost to add to his vast collection of personal phantoms. Deceptively delicate fingers push the splintered glass fragments across the mahogany surface, his attentions seemingly spiraling inward as he pries a larger shard from the glittering rose-tinted assortment, carefully pressing it between the calloused skin of his thumb and forefinger, holding it at arms length, exposing it to the dim, muted, early-morning light, each thin spider web of cracks, each damaged facet reflecting a different shade of red, flowery pinks to deepened, vicious shades reminiscent of blood.

"How is it, that I can still recall my mother's teachings as though she were right next to me? I can still hear her voice, detailing the importance of understanding and control."

He drops the glistening shard into a glass bottle.

"But The Evil One, He only sounds like Kazuya."

"Sir, what is the significance of the broken lens glass?

_Jin insisted on keeping his social interactions and public appearances strictly off-book, as rare and rumoured as they were. Hunched over liquor-stained tabletops, amber liquids leeching into the fabric at his elbows, an overpowering cacophony of smells, a vibrant combination of cigarette smoke, sweaty bodies and piss, he prefers to haunt the shadowed corners of these downtown dives, the halogen hiss of flickering neon, the low mumble of men drinking devoutly to drown and destroy their own inner demons. _

_He is only the person he presents; these late-night lingerers offered no indication to the phantoms that plague him. _

_Curling gnarled knuckles around a chipped tumbler of liquid fire, he's glancing across the tabletop, littered with empty glasses and a colourful variety of bottles, discarded and forgotten in the ethanol fog that seeps into his brain, easing his anxiety into a pleasant fuzz, its sharpened talons dulled and delicate in their prying. _

_His companion sits facing away from him, eyes fixated on the door, calculating and mentally mapping, assessing threats and evaluating options, a sharp mind ticking over like second nature, despite the impressive collection of glasses stacked haphazardly by his elbow, an obscenely decorative grave standing tribute to his own private battles, a personal rebellion with his place in the world. _

_The red-head's resting a glass against pursed lips, tightly clutched in a leather-bound fist, fingertips tapping a symphony along a denim-clad thigh. He's uncharacteristically silent, a smirk playing about his features, a chronic amusement in Jin's necessity for this dysfunctional relationship to exist, to provide escape and a sense of a realism to a life otherwise lived entirely within the safety of a marble white fortress high above the sprawling city lights, untouched and unaware of the festering poverty, a slow-acting infection destroying the capital._

_"Did you come for a fight, Kazama?" he's half-laughing, eyes tracing the curve of a young woman's hip as she leans across the bar, a stretch of caramel velvet skin exposed above the low-riding waist of her pants, a thick curtain of auburn hair cascading about her shoulders, he's finding it hard to tear his attention away, her almond-eyes coyly glancing at him from behind lashes thick with mascara, as though she sensed his gaze._

_"I had hoped to talk," Jin's murmuring into the echoing crystal cavern of his quickly drained glass, hearing his own voice mimic and mock, emphasising an already glaring weakness in that statement alone. The unusual request proves highly effective in re-routing the red-head's wandering attentions, that vibrant, fire-hued glare easily disassembling and reinterpreting the solemn, grim expression Jin is rarely seen without; his own specific brand of couture fashion, black holes, electric eyes and a poignant history plagued with paternal loathing. _

_He's rolling the base of his empty glass in graceful circles about the tabletop, thin threads of syrupy liquid left curling and winding in its wake. That charismatic smile creeps its way across starved, bruised features, easy laugh lines accommodating the expression, because while Jin's face proved a representation of wealth, the strength of industry, of law and order, Hwoarang posed the perfect poster boy for revolution._

_"You and me? We don't talk." And there's no trace of a question, no hint of doubt, it is a statement of fact, Hwoarang's educated assumption that to discuss their personal lives would jeopardize the easy company they mutually provide. He's heaving himself from his seat, a rosy, alcohol-inspired blush spreading across the bridge of a bandaged nose, a pearl-lined grin creasing the corners of his mouth. Shoving fists deep into pockets lined with dirty money, he's already turning on his heel, putting to use his knowledge of stealthy exits, suggesting, 'You should get this one,' nonchalantly over his shoulder, unable to keep the amusement from his tone._

_Jin's slamming a fistful of notes on the table, hands sticky with residual liquid, eyes not once leaving the relaxed slouch of Hwoarang's retreating figure, lingering in the doorway, awaiting the verbal onslaught, because that is the routine they have built the foundations of a friendship upon, Hwoarang's snide remarks, thinly veiled insults masterfully composed to belittle the Mishima heir and his reluctant inheritance, while Jin, passive and cool, despite his obvious affliction as a ticking time bomb of suppressed rage, allows the countless insults and sly jibes at his account slide off his back, substituting human contact for dignity and an obsessive fixation with self-image. _

_It is no coincidence Jin actively seeks out the draining companionship of his old rival. Hwoarang who makes sharpened weapons of his own toxic wit, who's bruises and scars tell stories of people who have touched his life and left their marks along the canvas of his skin, he is a masterpiece composition of each and every person he has ever met, their weaknesses and strengths; memories of their faces and words carved into that toughened hide. _

_Hwoarang represents a personification of the humanity Jin craves, as the demon implodes and devours within the cavity of his chest, swallowing his identity, watching him with molten gold trailing from its eyes, whispering its encouragement, kazuya's voice distorted and distant from between its ivory teeth._

_Jin is swallowing back a thickening paste of anxiety, running a trembling hand across his features, his skin a fever inferno to the touch, beads of sweat prickling along his hairline. The strenuous effort of composing that carefully practiced mask of neutral expression physically exhausts him, thankful for the flicker of distant streetlights, dancing shadows and the night's elongated fingers, caressed his jaw, tracing the fine bone carving of sunken eyes and grim smiles, obscuring his demeanor from the observant gaze of his companion._

_"I'm not your personal bank account," he's grumbling, muttering to the stain glass surface of puddles pooling by his feet, ripples warping his reflection with the strength of his stride, a potential energy fizzling like electricity in the very bones that hold him. He can smell the dockyards stretching bleak and abandoned across the harbour, a fragrance of rotting fish and melting rubber; traces of faux sophistication in knock-off cigarettes and overpowering perfume, a heady mist of flowers and chemicals. Hwoarang spinning on his heel to turn and address his companion, and Jin swears he can smell blood in his nostrils._

_"But you are a sucker," he's laughing, oblivious and childish and so completely false in his behaviour, a practiced act of nonchalance and a lack of awareness Jin's fallen for in dark alleys and street light halos. _

_But Hwoarang is a professional conman, a liar's eyes and a silver tongue, a sickly sweet, saccharine smile, and tonight he makes no exception, cut diamond teeth bared in triumph, slowly fanning himself with a thick wad of paper money, revelling in even the most trivial of victories._

_"I wanted to talk," and Jin hears his own voice betray him in a display of meek dependence so uncharacteristic to him, so far removed from the persona he portrays to the general public, its awkward pronunciation leaves his mouth agape, a fine balance of confusion and frustration as he feels himself sinking slightly deeper into that black hole expanding within his chest._

_"What? Nobody up in that ivory tower willing to hear you out?" and Hwoarang's only feigning his disinterest now, eyes briefly scanning the skyline for the looming giant of the Mishima Zaibatsu Headquarters, an eye sore of glinting steel and frosted glass protruding like the metaphorical middle finger held against a city slowly drained of it's resources._

_"An excess knowledge of family secrets could prove detrimental to their health," his voice a dissonant echo sounding from deep within himself, a different timber mirroring his own words, ethereal in it's execution, whispers of demons and destruction ghosting each syllable. He's clutching a fist into smooth leather, sharpened nails scraping through fabric, ribbons of pale pink blossoming across his chest._

_Keep it together._

_"Does this mean you trust me to look after myself?" the red-head taunts, attentions temporarily distracted, momentarily caught off guard as coffee-coloured eyes carefully scan each strip of paper as he dutifully counts and recounts his stolen reward, before returning it with an almost parental concern, to the safety of his pocket._

_"You've proved yourself capable," and he'd try masking discomfort in the cocky, self-assured tones of familiarity, but his breath hitches, those sharpened shadow fingers claw their way up his throat, tearing muscle from bone, cartilage crumbling under the severity of their force, and he's briefly wondering whether the searing pain of his internal collapse is visible across the plains of his face, whether Hwoarang would acknowledge his strained voice as a warning, would he interpret it as an opportunity to manipulate him through over-abuse of his chronically waning patience, or would he swallow his pride and recognise running as a far more intelligent solution._

_"Which is more than I can say for you. I'm not the one creeping out at night to fraternize with the lower classes," perching a cigarette between clenched teeth, hands clumsy with frostbite, awkward and fumbling, struggling to light a match against the biting breeze of the waterfront. _

_He rolls his eyes to scan Jin's profile, a silhouette of bowed shoulders and bent knees, slowly crushed beneath the weight of an empire. His face is barely visible in the slivers of neon scrabbling at the shadows by their feet, his hair a disorganised mess, out of character for a boy so frequently framed in spotlights and television screens, hand lethargically rubbing at the premature creases carved in his brow, slow circles of therapeutic movement, but Jin's got his teeth bared in a familiar display of frustration._

_"It must make you so sour, seeking me out to share your little secrets. That is, more sour than usual," glow of pale orange fire perched between his fingers, wisps and curls of celestial residue, a halo of smoke circling his head. He's closing his eyes as the satisfying burn of nicotine fills his lungs, the smell a reassuring familiarity despite the tense conversation rapidly crumbling down between them, a monument to their collection of failed attempts at reconciliation._

_"I've already explained-" Jin's attempting, voice hoarse, a course whisper barely audible above the din of city life, a bruising pressure forcing the air from his lungs, pain like forked lightning and high-pitched screams filling his head with foreign words in forgotten languages, alien and intrusive and burning just behind his eyes. He's hunched double, fingers splayed on his thighs, skin melting as his vision spins, a familiar weakness shaking his bones._

_"Explained?! Jin Kazama doesn't 'explain'. What's the matter, you losing grip on that iron throne of yours? You need my help?" Hwoarang's oblivious, turning his face to exhale with the breeze, eyes fixated on the slumberous loops and twists of delicate ribbons of smoke, hypnotic and distracting, easing the pain of a million battle wounds, carved into his bones like prayers, righteous reminders of the satisfaction he so eagerly extracts from his own suffering._

_"I don't need help."_

_And Hwoarang truly is the face of revolution, rebellious to the very end, incapable of accepting compromise, continuously probing and questioning, desirous of everyone and everything, a fire grown from a sensitive street boy deprived of just that. Reluctant to step away from an issue despite harbouring an internal wariness that perhaps caution is the best option available to him. Adrenaline rushing through his veins, a force of nature beating in his chest, but on the grander scale of things, Jin figures he's more a butterfly than a beast._

_"What's the point in having all that power if you can't use it?"_

_He doesn't even see the swipe that kills him._

"His goggles?" Nina's inquiring, leaning elegantly against the back of her seat, arms tangled across her chest, tense with restraint, face a steel mask of concern, lips pulled thin against her teeth. Her attempts at composing her voice are lost in the intense effort to control her body, over-eager and probing, Jin barely sparing her a glance at the uncharacteristic curiosity in her tone.

"Shattered with the impact," he supplies, another sliver of blood-red glass perched delicately between his fingers, the tiniest memento plagued with memories of a horrific incident, so much more significant to her now.

She reluctantly chokes back a multitude of questions, face paling in light of his remorseless confession spoken merely as though an observation, an occurrence he had the misfortune to stumble upon.

Flexing white bone knuckles against the frantic rhythm beating its way through her chest, she watches the careful consideration with which he collects the tiny slivers glittering like stardust across the deep mahogany, the accompanying angelic tinkling sound as he drops them into a glass bottle, dark eyes intense with focus, they only flicker to her face for the shadow of a second as she speaks, despite the suffocating silence claiming residence, her gentle question reminiscent of a violent outburst within the vacuum of space they barely occupy.

"Why the glass?"

And he seems almost regretful, a flash of conscience behind those darkening eyes, he's sitting upright, hands cradling the ornate vase between his calloused hands, captivated by the sunset coloured shards clinking together within it's confines.

"Why did you do it?"

"Because this time, my power _was_ in question. And what better way to remind him of his human condition than building him a monument of glass."

Weak and breakable. Delicate within the hands of responsibility.

Nina rises from her seat, unnerved by a callousness Jin has never nurtured before, despite his reputation within the industry, a convoluted lie to protect his position as supreme leader. As he revels in the spoils of his tainted victory, she swears she sees that flash of electric yellow behind his eyes, the demons in his chest finding their way to the surface.

His inner devil becoming a comforting presence within his lonely life.

"I can only wonder as to what we will build your monument from. I fear glass may no longer apply. Sir."


End file.
